Wolf Hall – Hilary Mantel

The trickiest thing, in writing about Henry VIII, is keeping it interesting.   (Writing him, not being him!)  His story is so twisted and monumental and rife with sex and faith and empire building that nearly everyone knows at least something about it.  The salacious and violent bits, if nothing else.  Beheadings, betrayals, birthrights.  So it must be very difficult to write a long novel in which we all know where the narrative will go.  Enter Mantel’s Wolf Hall and the story of Thomas Cromwell, a lesser known figure in the generally understood saga of Henry VIII.  But Cromwell is one of my favorite types of characters… “the man in the room.”  While, obviously, this is not Cromwell’s autobiography, he makes for a fantastic vehicle through which to tell the tales of the Tudor court.  By focusing on Cromwell’s efforts and conflicts, author Mantel frees herself from having to give us a “Henry VIII tale.”  We begin to worry less about whether or not Anne Boleyn will marry Henry,  and marvel more at how it comes to pass.

Wolf Hall is a look into the parlor games and intrigues of history.  It is witty and pithy and, at times, just a teeny bit up it’s own ass.  I must admit that, in rare instances the clever turn of phrase became a little dull with overuse.  In some moments the pathos of a situation were undercut by the author’s compulsion to crank out a zippy, if artistic, one liner.  Again, that is just fine by The Worm.  Reading Wolf Hall had much the same effect that reading Oscar Wilde has for me.  It is so loaded with clever turns and phrasing that it encourages a slow read.  It can also be overwhelmingly smartassed in spots.  That said, when used on this subject matter and given the style and fashion of Henry’s day, I’m totally okay with Mantel’s choice to incorporate this tone into her narrative.

While on the subject of the narrative style, now would be a good time to warn (or tantalize) prospective readers.  Mantel employs a style in her prose that is either brilliant or just bizarre.  I started Wolf Hall feeling the author’s choice to play with the structure of dialogue as being disjointed and unnecessarily gimmicky.  Points of view and pronouns became confusing.  The choice to use italicized dialogue at times, and traditional quotes at others was disharmonious and disruptive.  In certain passages, dialogue flows directly into third person prose, which also left me on edge.  But at a certain point, maybe about a third of the way through the novel, I was able to let go of my unease and simply let the words and atmosphere flow from the work in a stream of consciousness sort of way.  Once I started to experience, rather than read Wolf Hall, I came to see it’s beauty and depth. 

Much of the prose in Wolf Hall reads like stage direction in a lavish production.  Almost as if it were originally intended for the stage, with heavy velvets and hushed but hurried converstaions.  You can hear the stomp of boots and the brushing of cloaks as actors move across a dimly lit stage.  Wolf Hall is where the verbal jousting of Dangerous Liasaons meets the haunting self-doubt of Shakespear’s Hamlet.  In fact, when all was read and done I felt exactly how I felt after first seeing Kenneth Braunagh’s film adaptation of Henry V.  A little smug; a little smarter;  a little more cultured.  And yet it was still just whole lot of fun.  This novel is an experience and some passages do deserve a second reading.  You will get a lot out of Wolf Hall, but you are gonna’ work.

This novel is chock-a-block with sidelong glances, verbal one-upmanship, double entendres and leveraging for advantage.  It is everything you expect and want from the Tudor court.  The book focuses on the period of Henry’s reign between Queen Katherine and Anne Boylen.  By limiting the scope of the novel to this period, and using Cromwell as the protagonist, Mantel is able to bring to the fore some of the aspects of history that may have been overlooked against the backdrop of beheadings and incestuous marriages.  Thomas Cromwell is the upstart fixer in King Henry’s court.  He is the lowborn man with the right connections… the man of whispers and shadows and a well-placed blade.  Cromwell is long-suffering and loyal, but nobody’s fool.  He also makes an incredibly complex and sympathetic protagonist.  (If the name seems familiar, you may be thinking of his relative, Oliver, who took out a sort of karmic retribution upon the monarchy years later. )

It was difficult for me to read Wolf Hall without thinking of Margaret George’s The Autobiography of Henry VII:  With Notes by his Fool, Will Sommers.  They are written in differing styles with slightly different points of view, but both books give you what you want from the Tudors and Henry 8, specifically.  I would say it is not necessary to read both books, unless you read gluttonously (as does The Worm) or you have a burning obsession with the Tudors.  Each novel gives you the historic flavor of the time and cements the confusing lineage of Henry and his wives.  If I had to pick one… well, I couldn’t.  George’s book seemed stronger on psychology and motivations of Henry VIII, while Mantel’s book probes the backroom dealings of his court.  Then again, George’s novel covers Henry’s entire reign and could take you a solid month or two to get through.  Mantel’s digs deeper into a smaller span of history and won’t strain your eyes beyond repair with late night readings.

I am in NO WAY qualified to judge which book has greater historical accuracy, and it has been a few years since I read George’s Henry VIII, but it seems both takes on the Tudors can peacefully coexist.  There are no radical deviations or contradictions between the two novels. None that a lowly worm would notice, anyhow.

So there you have it.  Wolf Hall was very satisfying and you will feel just that much more enriched as a human being after reading it.  (Either as a result of gaining a wider breadth of historical and cultural knowledge; or just from the smug self-satisfaction of now knowing your Norfolk from your Suffolk.)  I enjoyed this read very much and still can’t decide who’s Henry I prefer – George’s or Mantel’s.  What’s awesome is nobody is making us choose!  Pick ‘em both up if you’re brave.  If you can only devote time and funds enough for one Henry VIII tale – I’m going to recommend Mantel’s.  It is shorter and, I think, a bit more accessible to most readers.  (If you do go with George’s book, for God’s own sake – get the Kindle version.  I read mine before digital was an option and probably sustained life long wrist injuries by the half way mark.  That thing makes the Webster’s dictionary look like a comic book.)

Thanks to Kim in L.A. for the recommendation.  Great choice.  Oh, Worm Army beware… this is another one of those literary “gotcha’” moments.  Wolf Hall is the first in a projected trilogy of books.  The second, Bring Up the Bodies is already published.  On the up side, this novel stands completely on it’s own.  And, seriously, if you didn’t want to read the others but just had to know how the story turns out…?  Yeah.  You feel me.  Wikipedia, mon frere.  It’s kind of a public domain story, ya’ know?  Worm Out!

The Winter King: A Novel of Arthur – Bernard Cornwell

Mists of Avalon, a bookworm favorite, explored the lofty, magical world of Merlin and King Arthur from a woman’s perspective.  It was laced with chivalry and delicate political maneuvers.  Epic, refined, poetic.  The Winter King is not that book.  It is fantastically brutal and enthralling in its own very masculine way.  Cornwell takes a rough look at the world of the legendary King Arthur.  The curtain is thrown back on the magic of prior legends and instead the author gives us a bleeding and diseased world of deformed depravity.  And it is terrific.  Druids are not mysterious men of wisdom and magic.  They are base, superstitious cretins.  The gleaming knights of old are ragtag thugs with bones and bits of meat in their beards.  In The Winter King, Camelot’s tournaments would be more Thunderdome than Renaissance Faire.  Are you feeling me yet?

In a way that baffles me, Cornwell has found a technique for bringing the grainy historical past into focus while keeping the plot moving along like a terrific first person shooter.  The action is swift and the tale is epic at the same time.  I have reread certain passages over and over to try and discern just how Cornwell is able to convey authority and historical verisimilitude while keeping the damn story cracking along.  I love good, lavish historical fiction.  I love whip-crack action and motivated characters.  Here I have both in one novel and it is freaking The Worm out!!!  I can compare Cornwell’s meticulous recreation of history to anything by Margaret George, and his action and plotting is on par with the likes of a Michael Connelly or  Ed McBain.  Actually, now that I really think about it, the obvious comparison is to George R. R. Martin’s Game of Thrones.  (Who didn’t see that one coming?)  But it is NOT Game of Thrones so all you hardcore fans… relax.  There is room for everybody at the awesome table. 

This book does have its own flavor and spice that separates it from easy comparisons to other works.  By subverting some of the Arthurian expectations, Cornwell has given us a very plausible explanation for the legends.  And let’s get honest for a beat, it IS just a legend so, really, isn’t any solid retelling plausible?  If you’re not up for a weaselly Lancelot or a scheming Guinevere; if you don’t want to think of Arthur as being fallible and you like your Christians and pagans holding hands and singing… maybe give this one a pass and reread Mallory’s version.  But if you want to go on a completely fresh adventure of deceit, dishonor, heroism, and brutish whoopass – this is the tome for you, my friend.

Beware, though… Cornwell sets a grim tone with his novel from the earliest pages.  He definitely lets you know this is no T.H. White Arthur.  That being said, though, some of the Merlin scenes do feel slightly more Hollywood or “Once and Future King” than the rest of the text.  I enjoyed these flashes of lighthearted quirk but I can also see it being a tad jarring for some readers.  You are deep in Dark Age darkness and suddenly you are confronted with a character more like Zed from a Terry Goodkind novel.  I’m loving Zed… just not sure how that specific characterization of Merlin made it into this type of novel.  And yet it flippin’ worked for The Worm.

Greatest Scene:  The confrontation of Lancelot after the sacking of Ynys Trebes comes immediately to mind.  I also really enjoyed the interactions between Derfel and young Igraine during the narrative transitions.  The whole Isle of the Dead sequence was pretty intense, too.

Favorite Character:  For once, The Worm actually feels the most affinity for the narrator and protagonist in this story.  Yeah, I know it is “Arthur’s story” being recorded, but is it?  Really?  For me this was Derfel’s journey as much as anyone’s.

Biggest Surprise:  The terror.  I expected this book to be high adventure of Homeric proportions and it delivered.  But I didn’t expect to actually find sections terrifying.  There is some scary (all too realistic) stuff that goes down in this world.  More terrifying for how accurately plain old ignorance and intolerance breed such fear and hysteria.  And, man, hysteria when accurately portrayed as mob ferocity is just bowel-liquefying.

Heads Up:  This is (sigh) the first in a set of novels about Arthur.  You don’t really need me to tell you that, though.  It is pretty clear that as much as Cornwell keeps things moving along, there is no way the book will get to all the events hinted at.  On the upside, this novel is a perfect introduction.  Read it.  If the vibe suits you then you will be elated that there is more waiting for you to discover.  If this Arthur or this narrative style isn’t for you, then you’ve had an inventive tale told and you can move on.

Oh, one more thing to take note of… this is one of THOSE books.  You know, where none of the proper names are remotely pronounceable to the average American reader.  (Or really anybody.)  Don’t let it get to you.  Just roll with it.  The ride is worth it.

Best Line:  This is a very tough call.  Pretty much every thing that tumbles from Merlin’s lips is hilarious or profound.  Sometimes both.  But that is too easy… I’ll have to go with Merlin’s explanation of his apathy toward the plight of mere mortals: 

“If I had nothing better to do then I confess I would help Arthur, because I like him, but fate has decreed that I am an old man, increasingly feeble and possessed of a bladder like a leaking waterskin, and I must therefore husband my waning energies.”

Last Word:  This is the anti-Mists of Avalon.  And both books are fantastic.  Check it out.  Check ‘em both out.  Help me stop saying “check it out!”  Peace.

Baker Towers – Jennifer Haigh

Well written and laced with nostalgic 1940′s and 1950′s descriptions of a coal mining town in Middle America, Baker Towers is a quickly moving narrative about an Italian/Polish family making their way in a changing world.  In some ways it is similar to Duncan’s The Brother’s K, but this novel focuses on the struggles of the Novak family’s women.  Not quite a feminist piece about the strength of the weaker sex; it reads more like a litany of unfairness and sexism – reinforced by every stereotypical female trait and malady.  The women in Baker Towers are self-sacrificing, hysterical, needy and indulged.  And if they are not defined by a man – they do not exist at all. 

And yet the freaking story entertained The Worm.  It had the guilty-pleasure movement and bright colors of a cartoon or syndicated sit com.  Every character is more or less making horrible choices.  There are no real surprises when a dirtbag turns out to be… duh, duh, duh… a dirtbag.  The character flaws of our protagonists are telegraphed early and often.  Yet it is fun to see how this house of cards so completely falls apart.  I don’t know if this is what Haigh was going for with Baker Towers, but that is what I took away from it.  The characters became so simple and stereotypical that I stopped trying to feel for them on an emotional level and just watched the whole thing play out as a farce.  On that level, it was pretty fantastic.  Normally, by the time The Worm checks out emotionally – its curtains for the novel.  But there is a pull; a narrative flow to this story that will keep you in it.  Even if you are only sticking around to verify your predictions about these unfortunate characters.

I am not comfortable saying this about a novel that might be reaching for some profound statement about the condition of women in the middle twentieth century… but it was fun, goofy, and ultimately kind of camp.  I liked Baker Towers.  There.  I said it.  I shouldn’t like it.  I should probably be offended by the portrayal of… well, everybody.  But I had a good time with this family of unlovable sad sacks, chauvinists, and slackers.

Readers beware.  You will not find any iron-willed women in this one.  Mostly they riccochet from one bad choice in men to another.  They’re naive and needy – seeking validation from any unworthy guy.  And Haigh doesn’t portray the men in a particularly flattering light, either.  This cast of characters contains a whole lot of lazy, ill-mannered and loutish men abusing and neglecting needy weepy women.  This book does not read like a loving recounting of family history told from a modern perspective or seen through a prism of forgiveness and compassion.  Nope.  This story reads as if Jennifer Haigh herself thinks these folks are goofy losers or brutish caricatures.  The only characters who comment on, or accurately surmise the nature of the Novak family are Ed (an outsider married to one of the sisters) and Ms. Peale (a teacher at the school).  I have to believe the author is another of these observer characters and not particularly attached to the Novak family at all.

At least I hope to God she isn’t.  But that’s all just The Worm’s fantasy and imagining.  Its also how I got through, and actually enjoyed Baker Towers.  I could be way off base with regard to the author’s intentions and if I were to take these characters completely seriously as flesh and blood beings… well, this would be a very different review.  But its the holidays and I chose to believe Jennifer Haig has created a fantastic parody of Eisenhower-era proto-feminist literature.

Postscript:  I just read an interview with the author at the conclusion of Baker Towers.  Boy did I get that one wrong.  This is supposed to be some sort of deep meditation on the limitations and circumstances of a small town America that doesn’t exist anymore.  My bad.  I just never got the “deep” part of this novel at all.  The narrative style just didn’t convey any type of reflection or thematic continuity for me.  Win some and lose some, eh?  Worm Out!

A Cruel Harvest – Paul Reid

After the first few chapters of this A Cruel Harvest I began to squirm uncomfortably while our protagonist ‘explored’ the harsh realities of the slave-trading ship he was confined in.  It was claustrophobic, reeking, lethal and dehumanizing.  We’re talking very Amistad stuff here.  But my discomfort did not come from this undeniably tragic fact of human history.  No, it was a creeping feeling that I was reading some sort of racist re-imagining of our collectively shameful past.  The slaves in this novel are Irish peasants.  The slavers are Arab sailors.  You read right.

I had to put the novel down.  Not for any complaint about the writing style, which is perfectly serviceable.  Nor from any aversion to controversy or provocation.  I appreciate it when an author can flip a societal norm or redefine a society to make a larger point.  But what point is being made here, and is it something I want to endorse?  Was this some sort of right wing manifesto in which the author co-opts the suffering of a subjugated people so that he can create a lily white hero on the one hand, and on the other exploit the drama and pathos of a somber reality?  Did Reid think there was good drama to be mined from the slave trade - but felt it needed a white hero to really pop?  And while he’s at it – why not take a few shots at the Arabs?  If a white guy is going to be our protagonist, we can’t have white guys doing the dirty, too.  In all honesty, The Worm had to take a couple days off and consider whether this book was worth reading or reviewing at all.

Then I went to Google.  Apparently, there is historical precedent for the events described in Reid’s novel.  The Barbary Coast pirate ships did patrol the waters of Europe’s island nations and did enslave countless villagers (as well as untold numbers of African slaves).  Who knew?  I didn’t.  So I decided to give Reid the benefit of the doubt and continued with A Cruel Harvest.

That benefit was squandered on a disappointing read.  While I am no longer concerned Reid is writing racist exploitation fiction – I was bored with the content, character, and style of A Cruel Harvest.  It definitely reads like historical text.  There is very little dialogue and a lot of, “he went there and did this, then this guy did this other thing, then they did a thing together.”  It was hard to be present with any of the characters.  Despite such a compelling and instantly sympathetic premise – Reid never really pulled me into the story.  All is told at a remove and I found it difficult to remember who the protagonist really was.  I mean, I know his name and all, but I have no real idea who he is.  He seemed interesting in the opening scenes (in Ireland) but quickly became a device to allow the author to explore a deeply unflattering portrayal of the Arab world in the 18th century.

This book could have benefited from including some personal moments and character arcs.  When dialogue was included it added a quirky life to the characters, but I got the sense Reid was not really writing a character piece.  That is unfortunate, as any fictional story about slavery has the potential to be deeply moving, but Reid seemed more interested in telling the untold facts about the Arab slave trade.  An admirable goal, but poorly disguised as historical fiction.  Maybe a carefully written essay would be more appropriate for this author?

At the time of this writing, The Worm is about 15 percent through the novel and it is a struggle to return to it.  If anything, Mr. Reid’s book has made me curious to read Alex Haley’s Roots instead.  Should I force myself to give Mr. Reid’s book a third chance, I will write an addendum to this review.  For now – I’m on to the next book on our list.  No grumbling, people.  I don’t get paid for this, and with the holidays (and my vacation) fast approaching – I do not have time to spend reading something this tedious.  Peace out.

 

The Dark Wife – Sarah Diemer

The Dark Wife is brilliantly conceived whether you know your Greek mythology or not.  It tells the revised story of Persephone and Hades, with some Zeus and Hermes thrown in.  Don’t remember that story?  Take heart, you don’t need to.  But for full enjoyment of this novel, I would suggest a quick Wikipedia search of Persephone to get the gist of the original myth.  You won’t need it to enjoy the story, but it helps if you want to appreciate the author’s clever twisting of the original.  Before I read this book I vaguely recalled some aspects of the mythological Underworld (the river Styx, the ferryman, Tartarus, etc.) and even felt a twinge of recognition over a persimmon playing a role in the whole brouhaha, but that was the extent of my familiarity with the mythology.  So what did I do?   I cheated about a quarter of the way into this book to see how the story initially turned out.  I just felt I would be getting even more out of the experience if I could recognize some of the touchstones and twists from the traditional myth.  Diemer’s version is essentially a love story between Hades and Persephone, with some snags thrown in by Zeus.

For The Worm to be completely satisfied with a novel, there must be a great story or great characters… this book definitely sells us on story.  The characters are one-dimensional (Zeus is maniacally perverse; Hades is beneficent, noble, perfect; Demeter is submissive and impotent; Persephone is naive; Pallas is the goof-ball best friend sidekick.)  But this is not the criticism of Diemer it might seem to be.  The author gets something of a pass on this issue because her setting and structure (Greek mythology) limit character development. 

Traditionally, mythological characters ARE one note in each story.  They are always an archetype and sometimes their identifying personalities and characteristics are even enhanced or tweaked to fit a particular tale being told.  Given that, and the challenge of the bleak Underworld setting for most of the novel, it is understandable why Diemer had to resort to Twilight-esque hand wringing and vow-making to strengthen her love story.  I would have liked to see more character interaction in the world Diemer created, but I can’t see any way for her plot and setting to have worked other than the way it did.  All in all, this novel feels like a small, intimate stage production.  There are two main characters, one solid supporting character, and three characters who serve as plot devices.  And that is it.  There are no mortals in this tale at all, and not much interaction between our main cast of characters.  I would have loved to spend more time with the gods at Olympus and, initially, I thought there would be more of that goddess rivalry story – based on the opening scenes.  Really, this book feels like a perfect art house expression of what Diemer was trying to convey.  As a gluttonous consumer of the written word, I personally would have loved to see this tale expanded into Homeric proportions.  Maybe a mythological Mists of Avalon.  But that is only because we always want more of a good thing, right?

So let’s talk about style.  Diemer’s artistic choices and slightly heightened voice lend themselves perfectly to the subject matter and the epiphanous tone of The Dark Wife.  Her prose is pitch perfect for the characters of the Gods and her descriptions of the natural world (and the unnatural one, too) have just enough flourish to lend an air of the surreal to the environment.  And then something happened at about the 85 percent mark.  Suddenly, Diemer was relying far too heavily on a technique she had used sparingly throughout the bulk of the novel.  I’m talking about the repetition of words at the ends of sentences. Instead of revving up the emotional stakes, it suddenly thrust the author to the forefront of the piece.  As a reader, I was more distracted by the predictability of the device than I was engaged in the story.  That is not a good thing to have happen to the reader during the climax of the book.  A little like a phone ringing during… never mind.

In what I can only assume was an effort to up the emotional resonance of Persephone’s separation from Hades, Diemer dipped into her bag of tricks a few times too many.  Suddenly this articulate, tortured, epic love story became a Dr. Seuss book.  Ms. Diemer had previously used simple repetition to great effect in her prose, but it became such a crutch that eventually I laughed while playing “spot the literary device” instead of following the narrative.  It was that distracting.  And in a lesser book, and in the hands of less capable author, this quirk would not warrant pointing out.  While The Worm felt the sing-song nature of this technique was grasping and diminishing of the work, it is quite possible many casual readers will either not notice or not care about such a thing.  To me, it seemed the author was trying too hard to be ‘artistic’ and maybe a bit too caught up in her own head during the important final chapters of the book.   But Diemer is the real deal, so I feel comfortable expecting perfection.  (That isn’t too much, is it?) 

The following quotes come from the latter portion of the novel:

“… to fly me up the thousands of steps, to take me away, away – so far away.” loc 3949

“This, this, this was all I’d ever have, and it was ending.” loc 3974

“I knelt and gathered Cereberus in my arms; he scratched at my legs, whining, whining.” loc 3986

“And then I flew to Hades again.  One last kiss.  One last everything.  Everything was breaking.” loc 3986

“… as he rose and shimmered, as I shimmered, too.” loc 3986

“Light, light everywhere.” loc 4001

“Everything smelled white, was white and cold and stark…” loc 4001

“…the beautiful sky paled and paled and paled and paled.” loc 4001

“And now, now, now I had to see my mother…” loc 4015

“…and I was buried, buried, lost.” loc 4054

“…the fear that grew and grew and chased me in circles…” loc 4109

I’ll leave off there, but you see what I mean.  These are very effective tools when taken individually, but there seems to be a glut of them during the final few scenes in the book.

The above annoyance aside, I would like to applaud Ms. Diemer for her ability to navigate a difficult narrative structure with maturity and patience.  If you have read much mythological literature or epic poetry, you know character development was unflaggingly on-the-nose and allegorical in the extreme.  When character development existed at all, that is.  These tales were symbolic and meant to resonate with a broad spectrum of society.  As a result, attempting to write a compelling love story amongst immortal, omnipotent Gods within that structure is asking rather a lot of an author.
Lets take a look at some of the challenges Ms. Diemer had to contend with, once she constructed her world.

With most romance novels, there are external forces and action to help convey the relationship.  There are the pressures and obligations of day-to-day life which make the characters relatable.  Characters have jobs, have families, have confidants, play sports, etc.  They do all the things the reader does.  As such, their love can be demonstrated and built up in ways that are familiar to casual readers and subtle at the same time.  In The Dark Wife the characters are, by their very nature, completely unrelatable and there is nothing subtle about omnipotence.  The Gods cannot die.  They have magical properties.  They answer to one all-powerful dictator who cannot be challenged.  (Maybe on that score, some of us can relate.)  But ultimately, the characters in Diemer’s book are in extraordinarily foreign circumstances long before things go wonky for the lovers.  This makes it tough for the author.  Hades isn’t likely to pull Athena aside to chat about girl trouble over lunch at The Ivy.  (Although that is TOTALLY where I think they would go to do it.)  So Diemer has to convey deep relationship building without any of the cheats other authors can employ.  With her tiny cast and empty landscape, characters are forced to do a lot of chest beating and angsty sighing.  But Diemer makes it work.  I’m not sure how, but she does it.  (The gift of the puppy was a blatantly sentimental “awww” moment, but that was about the only standard romance novel move in the book.  And I loved it.) 

But the challenges for Diemer did not stop with limited cast and lack of interaction.  The author also put herself in a place (figuratively AND literally) where there really wasn’t any way to impress the depth of the relationship upon the reader, short of spelling it out.  You see, our lovers are in the Underworld, and not a lot happens down there. You get your rebelling spirits and your misanthropic ferryman, and a bit of a snafu with the Elysium Fields… but the afterlife is a pretty bleak and empty place.  Initially, Persephone does a lot a meandering around and pining for Hades.  But you can’t be a hater – there weren’t many good diversions in the dark when Hades was away.  So, while I found the pining a little overwhelmingly Bella/Edward… I can’t say there was any better way to accomplished what Diemer needed to establish during those scenes.

The Dark Wife is a gem of a book.  An ambitious work that sings with poignancy, despite the confining nature of the themes and characters.  Deimer has done remarkable things with this book and has a distinctive style reminiscent of nobody.  This would be a near-perfect work if she had been more confident in her abilities.  To me, she had already established an emotional connection to her characters and their plight by the time the final confrontations occur.  She did not need to reach for a heightened or more poetic style at the end.  It was too much like the musical score overwhelming dialog in a great movie.  That said, this is a book I can wholeheartedly recommend.

Favorite things: I’m a sucker for  books using the title at some point in the story – props for that grinning moment; the descriptions of nature being nurtured by Demeter and/or Persephone; the concept of Olympus, the sea, and The Underworld reflecting the nature and strength of their ruling gods. 

Favorite character: once again, I’m gonna’ have to go with an ancillary character – Pallas.  She had the best arc, best motivation, and most poignant/relatable love story.

Best scenes: The second meeting with Zeus; Hades’ dancing in the Underworld; the revitalization of the frozen earth; the satisfying After epilogue.

 

 

One More River – Mary Glickman

Summertime Mini Review #14

Hmmm.  Strange novel.  The premise is almost (but not entirely) laughable.  The “present day” characters in the early 1960′s speak and act more like you would expect from characters in the 1920′s.  Characters in the 1920′s seem more complex and activist-minded than the characters in the 1960′s.  And it is all sort of a weird jumble of tone and plot and social commentary.  The Worm is not sure what to make of it.  It has the plot of a potentially zany or sassy southern comedy of errors, but the narrative style and tone tweak more toward an epic family drama. 

Glickman chose to write One More River in an unconventional style (you will find no quotation marks around dialogue in this novel) and in some instances it really worked.  In others, not so much.  It definitely kept the narrative flowing in a very comfortable, natural style.  Almost stream of consciousness at times, because the reader follows along from dialogue right into inner monologue and/or narration seamlessly.  That tactic really worked for me.  However, this technique also caused Glickman to drift into an odd rhythm and speech pattern while writing the narration.  Oftentimes, period pieces use regional dialects to help with setting and character details (Mark Twain anybody?).  But in this novel, the lack of a clear delineation between conversation and narration muddled the prose a bit.  Glickman started writing the actual narration in a “southern” way and it was a tad jarring.  Her descriptive turns of phrase began to feel more like dialect than the actual dialogue in the book and that served to pull attention from the novel and place it more squarely on the author.  In epic historical fiction (when told in the third person), I’d rather not feel the author’s presence at all.  I want an immersive experience but sometimes Glickman’s slips into a purely “southern” way of thinking and writing became intrusive.  Perhaps this novel would have been best served if Glickman had taken the role of a main character and written it more in the first person?  We’ll never know.

One More River takes place in Mississippi, Tennessee, and other southern environs.  It is about bloodlines and race and religion and gender.  Events in the novel are tragic but sometimes treated with an odd, almost off-hand manner that is difficult to warm to within the context of the book.  The writing is outstanding, but I can’t help but feel the subject matter was a misfit for the author.  The 1960′s characters are painfully naive and all fanatically single-minded.  Each plays one note throughout the novel, making them more archetypes than people.

The real drama and high stakes of One More River are found in the earlier storyline during the time of the great Mississippi River flood of the 1920′s.  The characters in this part of the story are alive and propel the rest of the action – the problems are real and the outcomes never certain.  If this novel has a heart throughout it is in the character of Aurora Mae – who exists in both time lines.  I have to admit the author nailed it when she had that character point out to our young lovers (in the 1960′s) that their problems were pretty minuscule after what she and her people had been through in the ’20′s.  However, being self-aware doesn’t excuse the characters’ continued naivete and dogged simple-mindedness.  I just could not bring myself to like Mickey Moe Levy or Laura Anne.  They were like cardboard cutout advertisements in a 1950′s appliance store.  Flat, shiny, and really really thin.

One More River tries to tell too many stories, and as a result very few of them are given full attention.  Unlike Kathryn Stockett’s The Help, this novel can’t seem to find its main theme and that makes for a grab bag of societal commentary without much focus or punch.  Even the big plot device/twist is a little deranged and cartoonish – but I was willing to suspend disbelief for the good of the story.  And it still didn’t work for me.  The reader will see it all coming long before our protagonists catch up.  I stayed in it just to see if Mickey Moe and Laura Anne were ever going to grow the eff up.  They didn’t, not really.  They ultimately just find a way to get what they want without actually having to stand up for anything. 

If you’re looking for southern flavor and family drama – read The Help or Fannie Flagg’s Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.  Those novels managed to pick one or two meaty issues of the pre-civil rights south and pair it with other societal side dishes, never neglecting the main course.  This one is like a buffet line of mediocre grub that will leave you uncertain and unsatisfied shortly after you’ve finished.

Gettysburg: A Novel of the Civil War – Newt Gingrich and William R. Forstchen

Although I was dubious about reading this alternative history (in which the South wins the battle at Gettysburg), the attention to detail and specific characterizations make this work a compelling piece of historical fiction.  Frankly, I expected to be drubbed over the head with hardcore Republican/religious right propaganda.  Gettysburg, thankfully, is not that novel.  It brings the dusty, bleeding battlefield to life in frantic haze and choking grime.  It also romanticizes the civility of some of the interactions between North and South – and I’m plenty okay with that.  But do not go into this novel thinking it will offer any long-range social or economic speculation as to how this version of the battle would have changed anything in the lives of Americans.  This is not that book.

By using historical record, Gingrich and Forstchen have made solid assumptions about the thoughts and actions of key figures in both sides of the conflict.  While we can never know for certain how such legendary figures as Stonewall Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, and others may have behaved in every private moment – the narrative and character motivations seem very much on point.  The authors capture the soul-shredding reality of men of differing social status, education, and authority fighting against their own countrymen.  The battles feel all too real and the war-torn landscape will be burned into your brain.  But other than the taste of war in a bygone era, I’m not sure what more can be gleaned from this tale.  (I’m speaking of your average reader, not your Civil War history professors and West Point graduates.)

Despite being well-written and having streaks of excitement and touching humanity, The Worm is unsure if this is a novel to be recommended to general readers.  Here’s the thing:  it does bring to life the historical details that illustrate what Civil War fighting was like but because it focuses entirely on one battle, the reader would have to already know and appreciate all the nuances and strategies used in the factual battle in order to appreciate the authors’ twists.  I know the Union won the Civil War.  I also know that Gettysburg was a pivotal battle.  As to which hill was taken by which side, or how many cannon were used, or which railroad lines were important – I just don’t have that detailed information packed into my skull (I’d have to dump some comic book references, at least three Star Wars movies, and probably all of Michio Kaku’s works to make room – and that isn’t going to happen).  So the ‘alternate history’ angle was a little lost on me during most of the book, and it became a distraction because it reads like a very plausible war novel – only I kept wondering, thinking, “Is this part accurate or is this the ‘alternative’ part?”  It was hard to get excited by developments because I couldn’t anticipate their influence on the narrative and how they were changing the outcome.

Essentially, I get the impression that this is one hell of a masterful theoretical war game being played out by Mr. Gingrich and Mr. Forstchen.  And I’m absolutely convinced that military history fans will find it plausible and brilliant.  But as someone more concerned with story and character, as opposed to revisionist battle history, I had a hard time getting invested.  Imagine somebody writing a blow-by-blow account of the Ali v. Frazier Thrilla in Manila.  They get all the lingo right; you feel the sweat and blood; you hear the thud of the gloves on flesh; you are privy to all the ringside strategy.  But it is re-written so that Frazier wins.  You might wonder, what was the point?  I could have gotten the same sense of time and place and triumph if it had been written accurately.  But even that type of book might appeal to fans of boxing who find themselves thinking, “If only….”

On a character note, I found the ‘character’ of General Lee frustrating.  He was wonderfully portrayed in the novel but one key piece of his character seemed glaringly omitted.  Why was he so committed to the war?  He is depicted as a resolute, God-fearing man who is aware of his legendary and inspirational status.  He is alternately humble and full of manly swagger.  But, unlike many of the characters on the Union side, he never articulates his reasons for the fight.  Not clearly, at least.  The Union sees the Rebs as revolutionaries and traitors for trying to secede from the Union.  Okay, then.  What about Lee?  All we really get from him is that he wants to force a huge, bloody confrontation because a war that drags out too long with be disastrous for the South.  We know he hates the violence and thinks a quick, hard push will end it decisively – but beyond his brief mention of fighting “for Virginia,” the authors never plumb Lee’s own reasons for secession or for the war.  Late in the novel, Lee does fleetingly acknowledge that some of his officers are fighting for the right to keep slaves, and Lee finds that reprehensible, but he pulls sort of a Scarlet O’Hara and tells himself he can deal with that thorny problem after the war is won.  As best The Worm can figure, Lee was in it strictly for honor and duty.  Not bad reasons, overall, I suppose.  But a little simple maybe?

I also have one particular gripe about the potentially biased portrayal of Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia, in that the authors seem to dismiss out of hand the “borrowing” or “requisitioning” of materiel from the locals.  Many, many books (both fiction and fact) have gone to great lengths to characterize the Union Army as pillagers of the South.  Perhaps Lee’s southern gentlemen really were so highly civilized that they did not behave as brutally as the northern troops – but I’m thinking men at war are men at war.  This, however, was the only portion of this hefty novel that felt a bit ‘spun’.

Civil War re-enactors, hard core history buffs, or fans of military strategy should very much enjoy this book.  For most everybody else, it is a bit frustrating because it is hard to get invested in one battle – knowing intuitively that the stakes aren’t that high.  We know it is alternative history and the Civil War, perhaps more than any other American conflict, is riveting because of those very stakes and because of the way the outcome shaped the future.  Without those stakes, this book is beautifully realized but overlong and seemingly without any mainstream appeal.

True Women – Janice Woods Windle

Bludgeon-like title and cheeseball cover aside, True Women is a damn fine novel.  This was one I wish I could have read on my Kindle, since the garish cover was honestly a little embarrassing.  (The Worm never claimed to be immune to the eye-rolling of others.)  Fortunately for my dignity and the preservation of my literary pride, author Windle explains in the opening insert where the title comes from.  Knowing that the title is an ironic comment on the state of women during the 1830′s (and taken from an actual minority report regarding women’s suffrage) made it more palatable and The Worm was able to jump into this epic with enthusiasm.

Not just a story about women – True Women actually illuminates aspects of American history that, The Worm at least, had never much considered.  Refugees?  In America?  Sure, there were the dispossessed during the Civil War, etc. but that was fought in the cities and strongholds and plantations.  It was stand and fight and rebuild.  However, pre-Civil War Texas was sparsely populated and facing the oncoming army of Santa Ana who had vowed to take no prisoners.  What few fighting men were available were called to Sam Houston, leaving the women and children to flee with only their own determination and grit to see them to safety.  And then to face the coming of the Civil War a few short years later, when again the men took to the battlefields, leaving the women behind to rope, shoot, farm, and run family businesses and ranches.  And did I mention that during this time of testosterone-free hardship, these same women were threatened regularly by Comanche raiders?  Yup.  It was tough times for the women of the frontier, and Windle’s depiction is a far cry from my elementary school education wherein the women pioneers were described as bonneted ninnies who overloaded wagons with foppish fripperies from their Eastern homes.  I was always mildly ashamed of those women who seemed to go so naively to their dooms during the Westward Expansion.  The women in this novel are tough, gritty, yes- sometimes naive, and sturdy.  I feel, at long last, I have an accurate image of the true women of the frontier.

This novel is moving without being Little House on The Prairie.  Windle avoids sentimentality in favor of solid story telling.  The characters’ decisions are basic and sometimes brutal, but the pathos comes from the profound desperation of their situations.  Windle did not embellish what did not need embellishment.  Life was hard and cruel and the people who would survive such a harsh reality had to be as tough as their circumstances.  Despite the inherent tragedy in such an epic, there are no weepy overwrought passages about love and loss.  Windle’s protagonists are living real lives and we feel the agony of their losses without being told how painful they are.

Windle also looks at frontier/plantation life in True Women with an unflinching eye.  The heroines of this tale are strong, willful, determined, and granite-hard.  But they also owned slaves.  And, to varying degrees they have to come to terms with what this means to them, their families, and the slaves themselves.  This novel is not an apologist work and it is not a morality tale as such.  These are just the cold hard facts of life in that time and in that place.  Windle lets her protagonists, Sarah, Phemie, Georgia, Tildy, Bettie, and Martha unfold and grow throughout this epic.  Each comes to terms with their new consciousness about slaves, native Americans, women’s rights, Mexican landowners, and other aspects of a harsh and rapidly changing world.  Very little feels forced in this beautiful work.  Because the reader becomes so invested in these women’s lives, we feel the painful tugs of conscience when they do – and we urge them to find their better selves.

Populated with characters like Sam Houston, Theodore Roosevelt, General Santa Ana, and Andrew Jackson, Windle manages to make actual history come alive while sharing the intimacies of these women’s daily lives.  She blends the macro and the micro together so seamlessly that Sarah stands as legendary in the readers’ minds as does Davey Crockett – while Sam Houston feels as conflicted and human as any fictional character.  The characters in this novel are as compelling as they are fallible.  In fact, I was particularly haunted by the figure of Georgia.  The author’s relating of her life was so specific that I am convinced Georgia suffered from an undiagnosed bipolar illness.  I don’t believe it is ever suggested outright, but her behaviors were so classically self-motivated and then instantly rationalized that I sensed some sort of personality disorder at work.  (Example:  her bouts of unexplained depression and then sudden vigorous recovery – with no clear environmental or emotional reasoning.)  While this characterization paints Georgia in a less than flattering light, it makes the novel itself sing with verisimilitude.  Throughout, Georgia accepts the social injustices of her time with little reflection or empathy, and certainly without any commitment to action, but when her own authority/self-image is questioned she rises up to ‘do the right thing,’ even if not for the most noble of reasons.  (Her showdown with the loathsome Hawkins.)  It was the same with her rationalization to run the blockades and sell cotton to the Yankees while her family was fighting for the Confederacy.  It was a purely financial motivation at work – one that she immediately convinces herself is for the good of her family.  Of course, her family consists of children she admittedly did not have the energy or desire to raise herself.  She is, in a NUTshell, completely twisted but fascinating to read about.  (Maybe the casting of Angelina Jolie in the mini-series adaptation was no accident?)

On the whole, the earlier pioneer period (first third) is the most interesting and invigorating of the sections.  The second (Civil War period) is solid but more in line with stories we have all read before.  That is not to say there aren’t exciting moments in it, but 1) I wasn’t a huge fan of Georgia and this is primarily her story; and 2) it is familiar territory.  The third section (post Reconstruction) follows Bettie, the lynchpin of the author’s two familial lines.  It reads sort of as the feel-good payoff for all the trauma endured in the first two sections.  There is a lot more laughter and an easier vibe to the lives of these women.  Of course, it is also not without its political messages, natural disaster, and family drama.  If the first section was primarily about the Native Americans (including Mexican families); and the second primarily about slavery and North/South issues; this third section is where the author hits the women’s issues hardest.  She also addresses poverty, industrialization, and homelessness.  This is no “If These Walls Could Talk” type narrative, though.  Author Windle blends and blurs these issues throughout the novel in a way that flows like a lazy Texas river.

Only complaint:  The third section of the book is the most preachy.  I don’t think this is necessarily a bad thing but it felt as if the issues were sandwiched into a rather short chunk at the end of the book.  It felt rushed and maybe overbroad in its treatment of more complex issues.  When Texas was sparsely populated and every decision was one of life and death – it was a little easier to determine the right and wrongness of a thing.  By the late 1800′s, the small Texas towns had become thriving cities and after the Civil War they were pulled into the politics and problems of the entire nation.  This is where it becomes more difficult for Windle to summon the nuanced aspects of the historical figures and discussions.  The simplified approach doesn’t work as well and, while ambitious, the third section of the book doesn’t seem to grasp the subtle complexity of the new world in the same was it did in the first two sections.  Many characters become simplified good/evil personages that don’t have the shading and humanity found in the rest of the novel.  This last bit also stretches over far more characters and years and doesn’t have the same intimacy the first two thirds do.

Favorite moments:  Phemie’s last meeting with Tarantula; the women crossing the Brazos; discovering the origin of “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

Best lines:  The narrative is framed by an ancient black woman living near the creek bottom, telling the author her family’s history through her mysterious clairvoyant abilities.  When the author asks Idella (the voodoo/shaman/medium) if she learned her craft from the gypsies, Idella’s response is priceless:  “Darlin’,” Idella laughed.  “Do you suppose the eagle learned to fly from the sparrow?“  I’m not sure why, but this line and its placement in the story just killed me. 

At the end of the novel Idella and the author take a ride through the countryside – they pass by all the locations and homes and cemeteries from Idella’s tale of the author’s family.  When they return home, it is nearly noon and Idella says, “We rode that automobile hundreds of years and through hundreds of lives and we got back hardly before the sun was high.  Imagine that.  Everywhere is here.  The past was just down the road.”  that line kills me, too, but for entirely different reasons.

Man, woman, uncertain, or intersexed – True Women is a terrific historical novel.  Read it.  It is good stuff.  But, guys, get a Kindle version, audio book, or tear the cover off the paperback.  It is really an awful cover.  Really.

The English Monster – Lloyd Shepherd

Summertime Mini Review #5

First:  The cover art.  It is perfectly muddy and atmospheric.  (And you know The Worm has problems with a LOT of cover art.)  The subtitle is great, too.  It lends itself to the tone of the novel.  Second:  This historical fiction, based on real crimes, is not about Jack the Ripper.  Let me repeat that – it is not about Jack the Ripper.  And thank all that is Holy and beneficent for that.

That is not to say The English Monster doesn’t have the same foreboding, capes-and-fog vibe that Ripper stories have.  There is something familiar about this story, and I don’t think it is only the sound of a cane tapping down a slick cobblestone lane.  It had been haunting me during the first chapters of this book…   And then it hit me like a maul to the skull – Caleb Carr!  That’s it.  If you are a fan of his books then this one will certainly appeal to you.  And if you don’t know him, but you enjoy this book, drop everything and get yourself a copy of The Alienist.  Like right now.  (The Angel of Darkness is also good but nothing compares to The Alienist.)  In that novel, we get to see the evolution of the American criminal profiler.  In this one, it is the evolution of the British detective.

But hold on – that is only one of the tales in this odd mash-up of historical fiction.  The second story, set some 250 or so years prior, is about piracy, commerce, slave trading, and empire.  The most apparent ties between the two stories are the location (the docks of Wapping) and the supernatural legacy of evil that lingers through the generations and haunts the residents there.  Whether taken as one epic morality tale, or viewed as two separate stories, each is rivetting.  Reading this complete novel feels like getting two great stories in one.  Sort of like Amistad intercut with Sweeney Todd.

While The English Monster makes for a good “loose yourself” type of mystery, it is on the longer side so think of it as more of a summer-long book or one to take away on a vacation (if you’ll have a lot of down time).  It tops out at just over 400 pages and, though it moves at a solid, British clip (whatever that means) – it will take a bit of time to get through.  The English Monster is written with a studied clinical touch that lends gravity to the more sensational aspects of the story, and an artistic sensibility that breathes life into these long-dead characters .  The author also makes a particularly interesting choice to switch from a third person narrative to a first person perspective (Billy) throughout the novel.  With the author’s social commentary, sense of scale, and attention to detail there should be plenty in this novel to keep most readers interested to the final pages.  There is a lot here to chew on in this, our wieghtiest summer read to date, so tuck in! 

Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter – Seth Grahame-Smith

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies was fun.  Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter is amazing.  Both are written by the very talented Seth Grahame-Smith and in this work SGS reaches a new level of pathos and meaning.  He refrains from creating a quippy Van Helsing version of Lincoln, but takes the historical President as he is found – dour, deeply religious, stoic, and humble.  He injects the vampire element in such a way that it fuels the elements of Lincoln’s character and life, without changing the substance of the historical man.  If only learning presidential history in school could have been this inspiring and thought-provoking! And did I mention it is one hell of a creepy good time?

Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter is atmospheric and foreboding but has its fair share of gooey gross-out vamp smash.  The author blends fact and fiction with the same skill he blends humor and anguish.  Lincoln’s speech excerpts are even more rousing (if that is possible) with this grander new backdrop.  As if the stakes (wink) of the Civil War weren’t high enough – imagine the survival of mankind hanging in the balance.

The Worm is no scholar of history, but what little I do know seems to jibe with the facts and personages in SGS’s book.   But this is no fluff piece with Abraham Lincoln as the Terminator.  This novel examines nearly every aspect of Honest Abe’s upbringing and emotional make-up.  It does not shy away from his seemingly slow evolution from conscientious objector to appeaser to outright abolitionist.  Seth Grahame-Smith plumbs the depths of a complicated man and then gives him a preternatural kick in the ass.  And since Lincoln was one to enjoy a good tale, I imagine he would get a real charge out of being re-cast as a vampire hunter in this alternate biography.  I’m sure there were times during his presidency when Lincoln saw little distinction between his political enemies and the soulless vampire cabal of SGS’s book.

Rock on, Seth Grahame-Smith!